For years he was the left side of our bed,there first each night and face down in the sheets,an obstacle I climbed to reach my spaceagainst the wall. Once in, I faced the softmoon waxing over us and understoodpoor meant mattress with a brother.

Sometimes when he mumbled in his sleepI listened carefully, and then rose up to writedown every word. But often he just turnedand turned, his body restless where it lay,the fever of his skin against my skin, though Istayed still to keep from rolling into him.

There were mornings when, on waking, I wouldfind him nested, a bird beneath my arm.Of course I pushed away. I'd learned and lovedthe taste of girls, wore aftershave to coversweat, swigged beer from paper bags, a hintof hair on chin, all sinew, swagger, brag.

But one day he became a road, the sprawlof moonlight, glowing sheet. Creepersinked their leaves upon his back, then swayedin gentle wind across his cheek. The motionteased a dark dance on his marble curves.Crossing over, I never thought to swerve.